


i want to hold you like you're mine

by rosekings



Category: The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt
Genre: M/M, also so much hand holding, and a lot of me waxing poetic about orange juice, and atmospheric thunderstorms, i went hard with the hand holding in this, two very soft boys who are dumb and in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-13
Updated: 2019-08-13
Packaged: 2020-08-20 23:22:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20236078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosekings/pseuds/rosekings
Summary: They sit on the floor in Theo’s bedroom, their backs pressed against the side of his bed. Hands clasped tightly together, resting atop the rough carpet between them. Theo isn’t thinking about it, more focused on the window in front of him and the cold glass of juice in his free hand, but at the same time, it’s all he’s thinking about. Screwdrivers in frosty glasses and the sharp smell of chlorine that permanently tinges the bedroom and the dull gray light falling through the window and the warm skin of Boris’ hand in his bandaged own, so certain and there that it makes Theo’s chest ache.





	i want to hold you like you're mine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [freshbloom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/freshbloom/gifts).

> this fic is alternatively titled 'jazz pushed me into it and i just started typing words until it came together into something slightly atmospheric and soft and coherent'
> 
> jokes aside, this is dedicated to my best friend jazz ([freshbloom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/freshbloom) / [calpurnias](https://calpurnias.tumblr.com)), who beta'd this for me and who lets me scream ceaselessly to her about tgf. thank you for everything, jazz! you're the theo to my boris <3

Theo comes to slowly, rather than all at once out of searing nightmares like he usually does. It takes a minute for him to surface back to consciousness – it feels somewhat like ascending in a pool from the depths to the shallow, that lightness that grows as you rise. Finally, though, he’s able to take stock of the concrete things around him. It’s late, so very late – the weight of his eyelids and the heavy darkness and silence cloaking the living room tells him as much. And he’s not in his bed, which isn’t unusual per se, but still worth noting. He must have been too tired to drag himself up the stairs.

And then, after another moment, he realizes that he’s curled up in Boris’ arms. It’s such a normal occurrence that it’s the last thing he registers. Boris has his back to the couch and Theo’s forehead is pressed into the crook of Boris’ neck. Their legs are all wound up in a warm tangle. His glasses are digging into his temple and he can feel Boris’ heartbeat, slow with sleep, steady, familiar. How many times has he fallen asleep to the rhythm of Boris’ heart? How did it become such a constant sound once night fell that he can no longer sleep without it?

Something in the back of his head tells him he should probably care more about the particular fact that it’s near impossible for him to fall asleep without Boris. Maybe he should put some more thought into just exactly why he feels this way, but what’s the point? No sense worrying over nothing. This is _normal_ for them. This is just how it is. This – these touches, these moments, the things they’re allowed to do simply because neither of them ever tells the other _no_ – this is what’s keeping his feet on the ground amidst the drinks and the drugs and the burning haze of sun and loss. Boris.

If anyone saw them…Theo doesn’t want to know what they’d think. He barely even knows what he and Boris are himself. How is he supposed to explain it to other people?

Right now, though, it’s too late to worry. There’s no one around. God knows where his dad and Xandra are. The house is still. Fans hum softly and Boris’ orange-juice breath brushes over Theo’s collarbone.

It’s not a bad night.

He’s not sure why he’s awake at all, but his throat and tongue feel scratchy and dry so he slowly extricates himself, careful to be as quiet as possible, and pads across the living room to the kitchen for some water. A sliver of moonlight slides in through the curtains, reflecting off the glasses on the counter – their screwdrivers from dinner. His head is still aching a little from it and most of his rational thoughts are gone thanks to the lingering buzz and the late hour. He rubs his eyes and opens the fridge, wincing against the sharp white LED inside, and he’s completely forgotten what he originally came in here for until his eyes land on a mesh bag of oranges. Actual oranges. Bright and gleaming and each one bearing a _Product of California!_ sticker. When did oranges get in the fridge? Who the fuck is buying fruit? Not that he’s complaining, but still. Fruits and veggies are pretty much unheard of in the Decker household.

And then all of a sudden, as the vivid color of the oranges starts to become seared onto his eyelids – he blinks and sees them in afterimages – an orange sounds like the most delicious fucking thing in the entire world, so he grabs the whole bag and dumps it out onto the granite counter. After a quick scramble to keep them from rolling off onto the floor, he pulls a knife out and sets to work slicing them into sixths. In the dark. A _knife,_ in the _dark,_ when half of his brain is being pinged with some atomic frequency and the other half is thinking about earlier that afternoon when he and Boris went and hung out at the playground and Boris taught him new phrases in Russian.

Though it makes him uncomfortable to admit it, at least forty percent of his headspace is constantly thinking about Boris. He never even notices it, until he does.

But never mind that. The knife, and the oranges, are taking precedence. _It’s not even really dark,_ he tells himself as he finishes the first fruit and sets it aside. There’s a small strip of moonlight falling over the counter, flashing across his hands as he mechanically slices. _Maybe Boris wants an orange._ Theo glances up into the living room. Boris is still passed out on the couch, his breathing steady. _What if he does? Should I wake –_

“Fuck!” he exclaims, dropping the knife. Because he was too busy thinking about something _other_ than the lethally sharp kitchen utensil he was using in the dark, the blade slipped and now there’s a fairly significant gash in the palm of his right hand. He leans into the moonlight and, yeah, it’s bleeding. A lot. Somewhere in his brain it occurs to him that he should probably stop it. He can’t move, though. The initial cut hurt but now he hardly even feels it. The stinging pain is actually clearing his head a little, and now he can’t stop watching the blood, _his_ blood, running down his palm to his wrist in dark red rivulets, pooling on the counter just beside his pile of orange slices. It’s fascinating, horrifying, repulsing, hypnotizing.

“Potter?”

Theo’s eyes snap up and he sees Boris stumbling out of the living room, his hair a frizzy mess, his eyes all squinty and sticky from sleep. Theo doesn’t say anything – he can’t seem to find any words to explain yet – and Boris stops next to him.

“What are you doing?”

Theo swallows. Boris frowns and looks down, taking in the scene on the countertop. A choked noise escapes him and when his eyes, wide with alarm and terror, look up, Theo realizes what he must see.

“_Theo –_“

His voice is strangled and Theo immediately feels horrible. “No, Boris, it’s not – I’m not – I was just slicing oranges. I wasn’t –“

Boris stares at him. “You would do that to me?” he whispers, aghast. “While I am sleeping? You’d do that?”

“_No,_ Boris, I – it was an accident, okay? Look. It’s just my hand, seriously –“ He holds up his hand, coated in blood, and Boris’ eyes go wider, if possible.

“Fucking hell Potter, you’re going to bleed out.”

He takes Theo’s injured hand in his own, cradling the back atop his palm, and he rips a wad of paper towels off the roll with his free hand. He presses them against the wound and Theo hisses a swear. “I can fix it myself,” he protests, but it’s half-hearted. He knows Boris won’t stop and the bitter truth is that Theo doesn’t want him to.

“Stay here,” Boris says, leaving the kitchen. Theo can hear him muttering angrily in Ukrainian under his breath as he disappears inside the bathroom. The light momentarily flicks on and then a minute later it’s off again and he’s back. He drops a roll of white gauze onto the counter and then rustles in one of the kitchen drawers and comes up with a roll of Scotch tape. “Where did you put the vodka?”

“Um, over there.” Theo nods to the opposite counter and Boris grabs the bottle, uncapping it. “What, can’t look at blood sober?”

Boris gives him an unimpressed look. “Disinfectant, you twat.” And without further ado, he grabs Theo’s hand and pours vodka over the wound.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Theo yelps, yanking his burning hand away. Boris looks at him like he’s being ridiculous.

“I told you! Is disinfectant!”

“We have Neosporin and hydrogen peroxide for that, you shit!”

Boris rolls his eyes, tipping the bottle to his mouth. “Vodka works just as well, trust me,” he says, wiping his lips with his wrist. Theo shakes his head.

“You’re insane. Can we _please_ wrap it up now?”

Boris frowns at the cut. “It needs stitches, no?”

They both contemplate Theo’s hand and the depth of the wound. “I’m not letting you anywhere near me with a needle,” he finally says. “And besides, it’s not that deep.”

Boris shrugs. “Fair enough.” And then he starts unrolling the gauze and things fall quiet again as Theo lets him carefully wrap up his hand. In the darkness – their eyes are well adjusted now – the only sound is their breathing and Theo can feel Boris’ softly across his hands. Every stroke of his fingers over Theo’s skin is so familiar and comforting that it’s just second nature for him to lean forward into Boris’ touch.

His gaze drifts from their hands to Boris’ lowered face. Boris is too focused on the bandages to notice, so he lets his eyes roam. Long, fluttering eyelashes. Sharp bones outlining sunken cheeks. Pale pink and chapped lips. Theo swears he knows what those lips feel like but every time he tries to bring up the memory, that _feeling_, it slips from his grasp and back into the foggy nonsensical space in the recesses of his mind.

Boris looks up. His eyes meet Theo’s, glittering black in the dark. Suddenly Theo feels like there’s more between them than just air, something in the shape of unsaid words and buried thoughts and the skips of heartbeats. Boris’ gaze is heavy and patient. A lot of rough nights that are no more than fragments in Theo’s mind have started this way: both of them one step too close to the other, one shot too drunk, one look too long. Theo knows the signs when he sees them, yet this feels different. It feels like more. More emotional, less physical.

Yet regardless of whatever it is, it slides away too soon. Theo’s words – and he really has no idea what they were going to be – die on his tongue, and as if Boris had predicted this, his gaze falls away and he finishes taping the gauze down. He screws the vodka cap back on and the moment is gone.

“Thanks,” Theo mutters. Boris hums, nodding, and they both set to work cleaning up Theo’s mess.

Once all the blood is gone and the kitchen smells of bleach, they both hop up onto the counter to eat the orange Theo was able to slice, their heels gently knocking against the cupboards in the dark quiet. Halfway through his second slice, he realizes their hands aren’t that far apart, resting on the counter between their legs, and all of a sudden he’s struck with the most ridiculous urge to grab Boris’ hand.

He kind of wants to. _Really_ wants to. He misses the feeling of Boris’ fingertips on his skin from earlier. He doesn’t think Boris would mind. Would he?

_How much did you drink before bed?_

He’s fairly certain he wasn’t anything more than tipsy before he fell asleep but judging by the absolutely absurd impulses he’s got going on right now he may as well have been wasted.

He moves on to his third and final orange slice, tossing the rind of the second onto the counter. He tries to ignore it all. But as time slips by while they sit there, their mouths sour and full of citrus, Theo can’t shake the ghost of Boris’ hand on his own.

They finish their oranges in easy silence and then leave the vodka and the rest of the fruit on the counter and make the trudge up to Theo’s bedroom. Boris collapses onto his side of the bed without preamble; Theo takes an extra few seconds to yank off his blood-crusted shirt. Soon enough they’re side-by-side, easy breathing and the hum of the AC unit on the wall in their ears. Boris reaches out for something, fumbling in the dark, and his hand whacks into Theo’s nose.

“Boris, what?” Theo says impatiently.

“Your hand,” he mutters.

“What?”

“The one you cut.”

“What _about_ it?”

“Let me see it.”

Too tired to argue, Theo gives his hand over. Boris gently pokes and prods it, feeling out the bandages.

“Is okay?”

Theo mumbles a noise of assent into his pillow.

“Tha’s good,” Boris says absently, sleep heavy in his voice. He stops worrying at the gauze but he still has Theo’s hand loosely held in his grip. He doesn’t let go, and Theo doesn’t pull away.

They fall asleep just like that.

“Potter.”

“Mm.”

“_Potter._”

Theo groans, face-down on the bed. It’s too early for whatever Boris wants. Bass drums pound against his skull and the pillow beneath his cheek smells of chlorine, like it always does.  
Boris whacks his head. “You have to see this.”

Theo sluggishly peels himself off the pillow and rolls over to see Boris sitting on the edge of his side of the bed with his back to Theo, staring out the window. “What time is it?” Theo mutters, rubbing his eyes. His head is throbbing, his ears ringing.

“One.”

“In the afternoon?”

“Yah.”

“Fuck. How late were we up?”

Boris shrugs. “Don’t remember. Look.”

Theo sits up amidst the tangle of sheets and it’s only then that he realizes he’s shirtless. Great. He follows Boris’ gaze out the window and promptly feels his jaw drop. “Holy shit.”

Hanging heavy over their lonely, sandy suburb in the middle of the desert is a blanket of bruise-colored clouds, stretching as far as they can see and obscuring any sunlight that would dare try to seep through. Already Theo can hear the low rumblings of thunder far off, slowly creeping closer.

Nevada has been in a relentless summer drought, but as they near the end of August, it looks like that time is over. He can smell the rain brewing in the clouds, mixed with humidity and the hair-raising sensation of electricity.

“How long has it been like this?” Theo asks. Boris looks at him over his shoulder, a wild spark of excitement in his eyes.

“Ten, maybe.”

“You’ve been up since ten?”

“Nine.”

“Dude, why didn’t you wake me up?”

“Maybe I wanted peace and quiet for once,” he says with a hint of a smile that tells Theo he isn’t being serious. He was just letting him sleep. A tendril of warmth unfurls in Theo’s chest at the thought.

Theo blows out a breath and leans over the edge of the bed. His fingertips blindly graze the floor until they catch on a shirt, some old thing with three cats and a size too big for him. He has no idea which one of theirs it originally was.

“So are we just going to wait for the storm all day?” he asks, tugging on the shirt. Boris shrugs.

“Is not exactly like we have more important plans, is it?”

Theo sighs. “I guess not.” His eyes catch on a silver Pop-Tart wrapped discarded on the carpet and he frowns. “Don’t tell me you ate all the strawberry ones.”

Boris shakes his head and pulls open the nightstand drawer. He tosses two foil packets of Pop-Tarts onto Theo’s lap. “Just for you, sleeping beauty.”

“Let me see it, Potter.”

“It’s _fine,_ Boris. Seriously. I’m fine.”

“I need to make sure is not infected!”

“It’s _not._ You drenched it in enough vodka to make sure of that. Quit babying me.”

“Give me your fucking hand, Theo.”

They’re sitting cross-legged on the tiled kitchen floor, first-aid supplies strewn out around them. Knowing he’s not going to win, Theo lets out a huff and thrusts his bandaged hand towards Boris. Boris rolls his eyes, unimpressed with his stubbornness, and starts unraveling the white gauze with the same slow care he took last night. His gentleness makes all of Theo’s irritation evaporate instantly, and it’s replaced with the pads of his fingers, brushing Theo’s skin, his palm, his wrist, his pulse point, sending off sparks. They never stop, those sparks.

_Quit fucking thinking about that._

The gash definitely isn’t pretty, but at least there’s no signs of infection. Theo chews on his bottom lip as Boris washes the cut out again (this time with hydrogen peroxide rather than vodka, thank God) and slowly rebandages it, his head bent and his curls falling into his face.

“Why do you…” Theo takes a shallow breath, his voice coming out a lot smaller than he intended. “Why do you do this stuff for me?”

“Because,” Boris says matter-of-factly, taping the end of the gauze and looking up at Theo with the simplest of aches in his eyes, Theo’s hand still loosely cradled in his palm, “is you.”

Theo’s breath hitches in his throat, his heart swelling painfully against his chest again. “Boris –“

“I know.”

It’s almost unbearable, watching Boris look at him like _that._ Like he knows everything going on inside Theo’s head, the buried truths, the unacknowledged longings. He’s just waiting for Theo to do something about it and the problem is, Theo doesn’t know what _to_ do.

But it’s too much for him to be this close to Boris right now and not do anything at all, not after all this time, so just as Boris starts to pull his hand away, Theo grabs it. Boris freezes, and there’s an agonizingly long look of silence between them. What’s he going to do? Did Theo just fuck it all up?

But then Boris just properly laces their fingers together like they’ve done it a million times before and he stands up, pulling Theo off the kitchen floor with him.

“The storm waits for us, Potter.”

“Does it?”

“_Yes._” He pauses, frowning. “We need more orange juice first.”

They sit on the floor in Theo’s bedroom, their backs pressed against the side of his bed. Hands clasped tightly together, resting atop the rough carpet between them. Theo’s right in Boris’ left. Theo isn’t thinking about it, more focused on the window in front of him and the cold glass of juice in his free hand, but at the same time, it’s _all_ he’s thinking about. Screwdrivers in frosty glasses and the sharp smell of chlorine that permanently tinges the bedroom and the dull gray light falling through the window and the warm skin of Boris’ hand in his bandaged own, so certain and _there_ that it makes Theo’s chest ache. The sky is dark and heavy with the promise of the coming storm, the first that they’ve seen in a long, dry while.

Theo inhales deeply through his nose. The citrus of their orange juice mingles with the heady scent of rain ready to fall and it fills his lungs, punctuates the slight buzz in his head from the vodka mixed with the juice. It’s been one of the most peaceful afternoons of his life.

They don’t talk much. A few words here and there. It’s nearing three o’clock when Theo’s eyelids start growing heavy. Lulled by the drone of the air conditioner and the way Boris’ thumb is absently rubbing circles over his hand, he lets his head rest lightly on Boris’ shoulder.

“When’s it gonna rain?” he mumbles, his eyes slipping closed.

“Do I look like a weatherman to you?”

“Kind of. An ugly Russian one.”

“Fuck off.”

There’s a smile in Boris’ voice and it brings out one on Theo’s face.

He forces his eyes open and takes a long drink of his screwdriver as he watches the clouds beyond the window do absolutely nothing.

And then, finally, after an indeterminable amount of time, the sky opens up. At first it’s slow, fat drops darkening the street, and then it picks up over a minute until sheets of rain come falling in a roaring torrent on the roof, sliding down the windowpane in rivers, staining the sandy asphalt a dark gray to match the clouds.

Thunder cracks like a whip and it’s quickly followed by a bright flash of lightning. Boris yelps, shooting to his feet. Theo looks up at him indignantly as their hands are ripped apart. “What the –“

Boris yells something in Russian and then bolts, flying out of the room. Over the rush of the rain, Theo hears him pounding down the stairs, then – “Come on, Potter!”

Theo gapes at the open door for a blank moment and then, all vestiges of sleep gone now, he tears after his friend.

He comes to a halt in the threshold of the ajar front door, Popchyk bouncing excitedly around his heels. Boris is standing out in the middle of the road with his head tilted skyward, absolutely drenched, and Theo can barely even see him in the gray downpour.

“What the fuck are you _doing?_” Theo yells. Boris looks at him and just grins, spreading his arms out.

“Enjoying life, Potter! Come on!”

“You’re going to _drown!_”

“Who gives a shit? Come drown with me!”

_Mother fuck._ Theo hesitates another moment on the doorstep and finally, through some combination of vodka and Boris’ voice and the rarity of the rain, he runs. He’s soaked to his bones within a second but he keeps going, keeps running, and somewhere halfway he sheds the weight he always carries with him and feels himself start to smile. By the time he reaches Boris he’s beaming just as wide and they slam into each other, staggering backwards. Boris’ chest shakes against Theo as he laughs; the rain falls off his eyelashes in sparkling drops and he grabs Theo’s hand and spins him out in a wide arc across the concrete, and then they’re both spinning and laughing and dizzy and lost. Theo has never felt lighter. It’s the cathartic effect of the rain and the way Boris’ hearty laughter contrasts the deep rumbles of thunder and the fact that nothing can touch them here in this moment except each other.

At some point Theo finds himself stumbling back into Boris’ arms and he leans his forehead against Boris’ collarbone, laughter still spilling off their lips.

“You know something, Potter?” Boris says, raising his voice to be heard over the rain. Theo looks up at him, but he can barely see a thing thanks to all the water streaming down his glasses. Boris moves a hand from Theo’s hip and gently pulls the glasses off, and they’re close enough that Theo can see him in perfect detail. Not that he’d need glasses to do that anyways. He’s got all of Boris memorized.

“What?” he half yells.

“I think, you and me – we are forever,” Boris says, holding him close with a grin. “You and me, Theo.”

The ground drops out from beneath Theo and yet somehow he’s still standing, still looking into Boris’ eyes, which are more alive right now than they’ve been in a long, long time.

He wants to say _me too,_ because he does, he _does,_ but it’s just insufficient and gets lodged in his throat. Those meager words aren’t enough to convey just how much he _needs_ the two of them to be forever. He knows that he has to do better right now because Boris – the one who has taken care of him for the past year, the one who has been there for every waking and sleeping moment, the one who has helped Theo through the absolute lowest of his lows and been with him for the highest of his highs – deserves more than words.

So as the first flickers of worry cross Boris’ eyes, worry that he’s said the wrong thing or stepped too far, Theo places both hands on his cheeks, pulls him down, and kisses him.

For a moment, he thought he wouldn’t know what to do, but now he realizes that kissing Boris is as familiar to him as anything else. He just needed to jog his memory. And God, it’s wonderful. It’s Boris’ chapped lips on his, his hands on Theo’s hips, his slender fingers warm and welcome against Theo’s waist underneath his drenched shirt, the closeness of their bodies staving off the cold of the rain soaking through their skin. It’s home, more home than Theo has felt since New York.

“You and me,” Theo says breathlessly when they pull apart. “Sounds good.”

He’s never seen Boris so happy and alive. “Sounds good,” he repeats, beaming, staring at Theo like he’s just been handed the world. Fuck. Maybe he has. Theo sure feels like it, anyways.

He slides a hand into Boris’ dripping wet hair and pulls him down again, because this is something he’s never going to get enough of, not now that their feelings are allowed to exist when they’re sober (or at least sober-adjacent) and not now that he knows exactly what – who – he wants. Their grips on each other are almost painful, their lips pressed together so hard it’s bruising in the best way possible. This is an entirely new kind of drowning. It’s not the rain that’s filling his lungs, it’s Boris.

Thunder booms right overhead and it brings them both back to reality. Theo leans back and for just a moment afterwards, Boris’ eyes remain closed, like he wants to stay suspended in that moment for as long as possible. Theo’s heart swells against his chest at the thought and he lightly touches Boris’ cheek with his fingertip. Boris’ eyes flicker open and he smiles when he sees Theo again.

“We’re going to get electrocuted or some shit,” Theo says, because as much as he’d like to continue doing this right here forever, he’s starting to shiver (though that may not be entirely from the rain).

Boris laughs and nods, sliding his hand into Theo’s. It really is the entire world. He’ll never need anything else.

Leaning into each other, they go inside with forever held in between their hands.


End file.
